This Year, Let Us Resolve to Be Flawed, Forgiven, and Loved

Have you faltered on a New Year's resolution yet? If so—and even if not—this one's for you.

As another year begins, I find myself looking back with a mixture of gratitude and humility—just like I do every year. I feel gratitude for the grace that has carried me through, even when I least deserved it. I feel humbled because with each passing year, the more I realize how deeply I need that grace—every day, in every season.

We live in a world that tells us we “should” constantly be moving forward, always improving, always achieving. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of life and ministry, it’s that the moments of deepest growth and healing rarely come from our striving. They come when we reach the end of ourselves, when we can no longer mask our wounds, and when mercy meets us there.

A friend of mine likes to say that we should never “should” on ourselves because when we do, we are being more harsh with ourselves than God is. God’s call to more and better (the Bible calls this sanctification) comes as loving invitation, not shaming rebuke. He does not say to us, “Shame on you,” but instead says, “Come, follow me.”

That’s the beauty of the gospel. It’s not for the polished or the perfect. It’s for the broken, the messy, the weary—people like me. People like you. Jesus Himself said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.” He didn’t just preach this; He lived it. Again and again, He drew close to those others pushed away.

The sinners, the doubters, the ashamed—they were the ones who found themselves at His table, welcomed with open arms.

As I reflect on the past year, I see echoes of this in my own life. There have been joys, too many to count, but also struggles—moments when I’ve fallen short, when I’ve felt the sting of my own frailty and finiteness and limitations and sin, and when I’ve been tempted to believe the lie that I have to get everything right, to “fix things,” before I can move ahead. But the truth Jesus keeps bringing me back to, the truth that is so clear in His own words and actions, is that our weakest and worst moments are not obstacles to His love. They are the very places where His mercy shines brightest.

“Let not conscience make you linger, nor of fitness fondly dream. All the fitness He requires is to feel your need of Him.”

Jesus tells a story in Luke 15 about a shepherd who leaves 99 sheep to go after the one that’s lost. I’ve always loved this image because it reminds me that God doesn’t give up on us, even when we feel like lost causes. Or, like that sheep, we might not even realize the mess we’re in at all, but the Shepherd comes after us anyway, determined to bring us home.

That’s been my story time and again. When I’ve wandered, when I’ve been wrong or wronged, when I’ve felt like I didn’t measure up or when I’ve felt injured—Jesus has been there, not with judgment, but with open arms. His mercy isn’t just a safety net; it’s a lifeline. It’s the reason you and I can keep moving forward, not in our own strength, but in the confidence that we are loved as we are, not as we ought to be.

This truth is at the heart of one of Jesus’ most famous parables, also from Luke 15, the story of the prodigal son. The son doesn’t just lose his way; he squanders everything, makes a mess of his life, and assumes he’s forfeited any right to be called a son. But when he comes to his senses and finally decides to return, rehearsing his apology all the way home, the father sees him from a distance, runs to him, and embraces him before a single word is spoken.

That’s who God is, and that is what God is like. He doesn’t wait for us to clean ourselves up. He runs toward us, embraces us, and celebrates our return. And the truth is, we’re all prodigals in one way or another. We’ve all wandered. We’ve all felt the weight of guilt or shame or regret.

But no matter how far we’ve strayed, His love is always greater.

As you step into this new year, I want to remind you of that love. Maybe you’re coming off a season of disappointment or failure, carrying wounds that feel too deep to heal. Maybe you’ve been trying to hold it all together on your own, feeling like you have to earn your place at the table. Or maybe you’re just tired, longing for rest but not sure where to find it.

Wherever you are, Jesus meets you there. He doesn’t just tolerate you; He delights in you. He invites you to bring your burdens, your fears, your regrets, and your hopes—all of it—to Him. Access to his heart and table isn’t reserved for the strong or the successful; it’s for the weak, the weary, the worn-out, and the wounded.

This year, I hope we can all stop striving to be something we’re not and instead rest in the truth of who we already are: beloved children of a God whose mercy never runs dry. May we learn to see ourselves and others through His eyes, placing supreme value not on status or accomplishments but the immeasurable, unchanging grace of being people loved by God.

And may we let that love shape how we live and show up for others—offering grace where we once withheld it, choosing humility over pride, and walking alongside one another as fellow recipients of mercy.

This is my prayer for you and for myself as we begin a new year: that we would know, deep in our hearts, that nothing can separate us from the love of Jesus Christ. No failure is too great, no wound too deep, no distance too far. His arms are open. His table is ready. And His grace is enough.

Warmly in Christ,
Scott Sauls